Part 41 (1/2)
”Sit down, Davie, sit down,” she said nervously. ”That's right,” she added as he sat beside her and put one arm about her.
”Now tell me,” he said imperiously. ”Are you sure you're all right?
You're not worrying about me?”
”No, I'm not worrying about you; I quit worrying long ago. But I must tell you--I wish I didn't have to--don't be scared--it's just about my eyes.”
”Tell me! Are they worse?”
She laid her hand on his knees. ”Don't get excited--but--I can't see.”
”Can't see!” He repeated the words as though he could not understand them. Then he put his hands on her cheeks and peered into her face in the semi-darkness of the porch. ”Not blind? Oh, mommie, not blind?”
She nodded, her lips trembling. ”Yes, it's come. I'm blind.”
The words, fraught with so much sorrow, sounded like claps of thunder in his ears. ”Mother,” he cried again, ”you can't be blind!”
”But I am. I knew it was coming. The light was getting dimmer every day.
I could hardly see your face this morning when you went.”
”And I went away and you stayed here and went blind!” He broke into sobs and she allowed him to cry it out as they sat together in the darkness.
”Come,” she said at length, ”now you mustn't take on so. It's not as awful as you think. I said to Phares to-day that I'm almost glad it's here, for it was awful to know it's coming.”
”But it's awful,” he shuddered. ”Come in to the light and let me see you--but oh, you can't see me!”
”Yes I can.” She reached a hand to his face. ”This is the way I see you now. The same mouth and chin, the same mole on your left cheek--that's good luck, Davie--the same nose with its little turn-up.”
”Mommie”--he grabbed her hands and kissed them--”there's not another like you in the whole world! If I were blind I'd be groaning and moaning and making life miserable for everybody near me, and here you are your same cheerful self. You're the bravest of 'em all!”
”But you mustn't think that I haven't rebelled against this, that I haven't cried out against it! I've had my hours of weakness and tears and rebellion.”
”And I never knew it.”
”No. Each one goes to Gethsemane alone.”
”But isn't it almost more than you can bear--to be blind?”
”It's dreadful at first. I stumble so and every little sill and rug seems a foot high. But I'll soon learn.”
”Is there nothing to do? What did Dr. Munster say about your eyes when we were down to see him?”
”He told me then I'd be blind soon. And he said the only thing might save my sight or bring it back was a delicate operation that would be a big risk, for it probably wouldn't help at any rate. So I'm not thinking of ever trying that. Now I don't want you to think I'm brave about it. I've cried all my tears a month ago, so don't put me on any pedestal. It seems hard not to see the people I love and all the beautiful things around me, but I'm glad I have the memory of them. I'm glad I know what a rainbow is, and a sunset.”
”Yes, but I think it's awful to know what they look like and never see them again. I can't, just can't, realize that you're blind!”
”You will when you come back from war and have to fetch and carry for me. Your Aunt Mary and Phares are just lovely about it and willing to help in every way. I was going to live over with them at any rate.”
”I wish I could stay with you, mommie. You need me, but I guess Uncle Sam needs me too. I'm to go soon, you know.”